


Watch - BEING REWORKED

by drowninginchamomiletea



Series: Me gay bmc bois [25]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Not a soulmate AU, Other, Self-Harm, Trans Jeremy Heere, as always, let's go boys, shared pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 01:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17376941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninginchamomiletea/pseuds/drowninginchamomiletea
Summary: Pain is primal. It's a shared experience among all living things. Among all people. But sometimes, when we really love someone, we feel their pain as if it were our own.MY FRIEND ACCIDENTALLY GAVE ME A HUGE INSPIRATION SOUUUUHHHHH JUST GIVE IT A WEEK OR TWO AND I'LL REPOST IT IN ITS NEW FORM.I'M LEAVING THIS ONE UP SO Y'ALL CAN GET EXCITED ABOUT THE NEW ONE





	1. Chapter 1

Pain. That was what Michael felt as he spoke to Jeremy in the hospital. It wasn't emotional pain, although he certainly felt that too; an ache deep in his heart. No, this was a headache, and an excruciating one, at that.

Jeremy looked up at him.

“M-Michael?” he questioned, slightly concerned. Michael shook off the pain, straightening up and putting on his best Jeremy-Needs-Cheering-Up Smile. 

“Yeah, my gamer?”

Jeremy's worry vanished immediately and he responded with a smile of his own.

“Uh, n-nothing, just... It’s s-super awesome that you're here f-for me, like, all the time, but... T-take care of yourself, too, dude.”

Michael felt his smile soften to something more natural. It was so stupid, but... He couldn't help going all soft whenever Jeremy worried about him like this.

“I'm fine, man. Don't worry, I know I gotta be at my best for you.” He grinned through the throbbing headache and Jeremy smiled weakly back again.

“Jegus, man, this f-frickin’ headache... I...  _ Guh.”  _ The boy in the hospital bed pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, clenching his jaw. “Cod, I n-need ibuprofen...”

Michael immediately stood, the worsening pain leaving him slightly unsteady.

“I'm on it, buddy,” he said, moving towards the door. The second he was out of Jeremy's sight, he leaned against the wall to catch his breath. He'd always been good at hiding pain, but this was more than your everyday post-gym bodyache. 

He flagged down a passing nurse.

“Jeremy in here needs some ibuprofen,” he said, straightening up, “and I could use some too.”

The man nodded, smiling, and stepped away.

Michael ended up chalking the headache up to the stress of the last few days, and brushing it off. It made sense; he'd been under enormous stress. What with the aftermath of the SQUIPcident—that’s what everyone was calling it now—weighing on him, on top of the raging internal conflict of whether he could really forgive Jeremy so easily for what he'd done, the whispering and quickly averted stares in the halls, the confusion and upset of his parents, and the depression and anxiety looming in the back of his head, it had been difficult for him to get any mental peace, let alone more than a few hours of sleep, in the past two weeks. It was only logical that his body was showing the strain. He took the ibuprofen that he was given and gave the other dose to Jeremy, and his headache soon dulled to a mere mild annoyance. 

The pain in his skull returned off-and-on over the next week or so, less intense each time, until it was finally gone for good. Two days after the last headache, Jeremy was released from the hospital. Two days after that came the first sign that something strange was happening.

 

“Shit! What the—  _ Ow!”  _ Michael yelped, surprised at the two sudden spikes of pain. He rubbed the top of his skull, baffled and thrown off-kilter. It had felt like he'd hit his head on something twice in a row, despite the fact that, sitting on the couch with his GameBoy, he clearly hadn't. 

“What the hell...?” he muttered, lowering his hand and looking up at the ceiling above him. Had something fallen on his head? No, nothing that could've fallen had ever been on that bit of ceiling. So what the hell...

 

In the meantime, Jeremy was standing back from the counter, also rubbing the top of his head and hissing in pain. He'd just hit it on the bottom of the cabinets above the kitchen counter while looking up to put something back in them, and then promptly knocked his brainpan  _ again  _ on the open cabinet door as he'd tried to recover. 

“Gosh  _ dang.  _ Crap, th-that hurts...”

 

The next time it happened, they were actually together. 

Michael had gone over to Jeremy's house, for a change, as his mothers were having June's boss and his wife over for dinner. The two boys sat in Jeremy's bedroom playing MarioKart, the smaller on his bed and his best friend in the desk chair. 

At the last second, Michael threw a blue shell and raced past Jeremy's incapacitated kart and over the finish line.

_ “What?!  _ Nooooo!! Gosh d- _ dang  _ you, Michael Mell!” Jeremy cried, devastated. “I w-was  _ so close!” _

“Not anymore,” Michael said, smirking as he watched the scoreboard place him in 1st. He wasn't really paying attention to Jeremy, so the loud  _ bonk  _ of something hitting the wall caught him off-guard. As did the pain in the back of his head that came with it. He looked around, confused, rubbing his skull. Jeremy was on his bed, half-propped up on his elbows. His hand was on his head, exactly mirroring Michael's gesture.  

Upon seeing this, Michael slowly lowered his hand.  _ That's... What the hell?  _

“Jeremy, what's going on?”

Jeremy glanced over at him, grimacing.

“Flopped b-backwards onto the bed and hit m-my head on the wall.”

 

The third time was at school. Michael was sitting at his desk, working on his math worksheet, when he suddenly felt a sharp, stinging pain in the pad of his right index finger. It felt like a nasty papercut. Biting his tongue, he examined the finger and found it completely injury-free. 

After a minute or so of trying and failing to think of an explanation for the sensation, he shook his head and, pushing the slowly fading pain to the back of his mind, went back to his classwork.

When he met up with Jeremy for lunch, he noticed that his friend had a bandaid wrapped around the end of his right index finger. 

“What happened?” he inquired, gesturing to the bandage.

“G-got a really bad papercut in English,” Jeremy answered. “Hurt l-like heck, but I'm f-fine.”

 

At some point, it started getting weird. Michael had felt pain mirroring every one of Jeremy's recent injuries, and after a week, he really couldn't pass it off as coincidence or him imagining things anymore. After another half week, however, he'd gotten used to it. In fact, he was beginning to appreciate it as a way of keeping tabs on Jeremy's wellbeing. 

He knew he couldn't tell his best friend what was going on. Jeremy would surely think he was crazy, and he couldn't have that. 

So he just continued on with his life, now with a new insight into Jeremy's. And all was well.

That was, until one late night alone, scrolling through 4chan on his laptop. At 02:18, without warning, he felt a piercing slice of pain on the inside of his left wrist. Gritting his teeth and gasping sharply, he grabbed the painful wrist with his right hand. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for self-harm

“The hell... Why are you _up,_ Jere? It's 2 in the damn morning!” he muttered to the empty room. “And what the hell are you d—” he instantaneously froze, mid-word, at his next thought.

No. No _way._ Jeremy would _never..._

...would he?

Michael slowly sat up and swung his legs off his bed. Just before his feet touched the floor, he felt another slice on his wrist. The skin there was already on fire with pain, it seemed.

This _couldn't_ be real. This whole phenomenon was already completely ridiculous, something right out of fanfiction. Who was to say it didn't just give him random pains in between Jeremy's?

But...

He should at least text Jeremy. He was his _best friend,_ and if there was even the slimmest chance he needed Michael...

Michael unplugged his phone and shot off a text to Jeremy.

> **_Sup? Can't sleep_ **

He waited.

No reply.

He sighed and pressed the power button on his phone.

Just as the screen shut off, however, he saw the little word, _delivered,_ change to _read._

He hastily turned the screen back on and swiped away the lockscreen. After another several moments of waiting, his hope slowly faded. There was no sign of Jeremy typing. Just to be sure, he sent another text.

> **_?You there J_ **

Again, the message was soon marked read, but there was no typing in response. Michael was growing more worried by the minute, and this only worsened when he felt another pain on his wrist. It wasn't slicing this time, however; this felt more like a blade pressing into his skin.

> **_Jeremy what the hell are you doing_ **

The message was marked read upon being delivered. After a good 15 seconds, Jeremy began typing.

> **_what makes you think im doing anything_ **
> 
> **_!Fucking hell, Jere, it’s a long story!! Just answer me_ **
> 
> **_are you fricking WATCHING me???!_ **
> 
> **_!What the fuck, no!! Dammit, answer the fucking question, Heere_ **

The message was marked as read, but Jeremy didn't reply.

Michael immediately stood up and silently speed-walked across his room. He quietly opened his door and shut it behind him before tiptoeing down the stairs. He stepped into his Heelys, knowing that all the noise of his 12-year-old car had a good chance of waking his mothers, and softly unlocked the front door and stepped out. Closing it gently, he jumped off the porch and sped off down the street. He felt three more slices and stabs of pain along the way.

 

He arrived at the Heeres’ mobile home to find all the windows dark except for one. Jeremy's bedroom window was softly lit with what looked like the glow of his desk lamp. Michael jogged to the window and was faced with drawn curtains. Looking carefully, however, he found a centimeter-wide gap between the edge of the window and the edge of the curtain.

He peeked in and saw Jeremy sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, hunched slightly, holding a razor blade and a dark-stained rag. As Michael watched, the pale boy shook with what might have been a sob and, clenching his fist, pressed the blade into the soft skin of his inner arm. At the same time, Michael felt his best friend’s pain, the blade digging into his skin.

That was it. This was real. Before he knew what he was doing, Michael’s fist made contact with the glass, making a loud _thnp._

 _“Jeremy!”_ he half-shouted, half-screamed, close to tears.

Jeremy gave a start, looking up at the curtained window. His face was blotchy, and his eyes were bright red and shining with tears.

Michael pounded on the window again, more gently this time.

“Jeremy! Please... Just stop!”

 

Jeremy felt his throat closing up with more tears. At the same moment, though, his chest was filled with hot anger.

“N-no! G-go away!” he choked out. “L-leave me al-lone!”

“Please, Jere, let me _in_ and we can talk about this...”

“I don't n-need to t-talk ab-bout _anything!”_

“Jeremy, _please._ God, please, why is this happening...”

“It s-sure seems like G-God hasn't c-cared much up till n-now, what makes you th-think he'll start giving a d—” he hesitated for a heartbeat before barreling onward, eyes hard. “A _damn_ now j-just because you're b-begging him to?”

Jeremy didn't usually swear. It made him uncomfortable. He was fine with other people swearing, but he didn't like doing it himself. So the sudden appearance of the word _damn_ on his lips shook Michael into a momentary silence.

He knew Jeremy would never let him in. So he had to let himself in. The time for giving Jeremy any choice in the matter was over. So he slowly began making his way to the front of the Heere residence.

Michael knew where the key was, of course. Wedged beneath the edge of the concrete path that led to the front door. Ready and waiting for anyone who needed to enter the building. And Michael _really needed_ to enter the building right now.

As he wiped the dirt off the key with his sweatshirt, he felt the most vicious slash yet on his arm.

He hastened his pace.

He didn't bother being quiet on his way in; Mr. Heere was out of town for the weekend, and Jeremy would know soon enough that he wasn't alone in the house anyways. So Michael ran down the hall to Jeremy's bedroom and slammed open the door.

At this point, he was shaking, and he barely even had to think about what he was doing.

“Jeremy—” he slapped the blade from his best friend's bloody hand and took the boy’s slim, shaky fingers in a firm grip. His other hand went to Jeremy's left arm, which was even bloodier than his right hand. It was still bleeding, actually.

Jeremy struggled against him, hard.

“G-get offa me! I d-don't need help! I'm f-fine!”

“Yeah, sorry, buddy, but I can't think of any sane person who would call _this,”_ he gestured to Jeremy's blood all over his arms and binder, his tearstained face, the old scars beneath the new incisions, _“‘fine.’”_

“L-let me _go!”_

“Not until you fucking get your shit together and start making half a grain of sense!”

“...fine,” Jeremy eventually mumbled, determinedly avoiding Michael's gaze.

“Come on,” Michael muttered, helping him stand up and guiding him to the bathroom. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

Jeremy reluctantly let his best friend help him to the bathroom, a fuming frown plastered on his face. Once there, Michael sat him down on the toilet lid, drew a warm bath, stood to face him, and pointed silently at the water. The pale boy frowned deeper.

“Dude, n-no.”

 _“Dude,_ it's three in the morning and you're covered in blood and tears, and there's obviously a lot you're not telling me. Get in the fucking bathtub and talk to me while I try and clean you up.”

“Breaking into m-my house and invading my p-privacy isn't enough? Now you w-want to interrogate me, t-too?”

Michael shook his head and huffed in mild aggravation.

“Jere, come on. You're not seriously gonna try and deny that I might've saved your—” he stopped, horrified and reeling as he realized what could have happened had he not arrived. “Please, Jere-Bear,” he said, more softly.

Jeremy narrowed his eyes and glared for several moments before standing and stepping into the tub. He sat and let himself sink down up to his chin in the water, still clad in boxers and a binder. Michael's frown deepened.

“C'mon, man. Binder.”

Jeremy scowled and struggled to pull off the binder. Michael felt a dull flare of pain as the rough cotton scraped against the cuts on Jeremy's arm. He held out his hand and took the sopping article from his friend.

Michael had seen Jeremy without his binder plenty. IN A TOTALLY PLATONIC CONTEXT. Mostly just when Jeremy had to borrow Michael’s PJs and the bathrooms were all occupied. And when Michael had to argue him out of his binder when they went swimming, and at night. Perv.

“D'you wanna tank top?”

Jeremy, still glowering, shook his head stubbornly. Michael rolled his eyes and squeezed most of the moisture from the binder back into the tub.

“I'm gonna go put some Shout on this so the blood doesn't stain it.”

Jeremy didn't respond, instead sinking back down into the water up to his upper lip and staring straight ahead. Michael sighed and stepped out.

Meanwhile, Jeremy suddenly found himself on the verge of tears again. He was spectacularly baffled at the moment, on top of his many emotions. First of all, he already felt guilty for lying to Michael. For hiding the fact that he'd been cutting. He was still in the middle of the emotional mess that had brought out the razor earlier. He was angry that Michael had found out, and confused about how he had done so. He was sad that Michael had to know about how low he'd fallen.

Speak—or think?—of the Devil; Michael soon returned and kneeled beside the tub, holding a couple of clean rags. He took the bar of soap from its dish in the bottom shelf of the shower caddy and set it down on the edge of the tub along with the rags.

“Alright, gimme your arm,” he said, holding out his hand.

Jeremy resignedly sat up and volunteered his arm. Michael gently took it and finally got a good look at it. Before he could do anything about it, tears welled up and escaped his eyes.

Fresh blood leaked from the incisions, mixing with the water on Jeremy's arm to form streaks of a sickly diluted reddish liquid across his pale skin. That same pale skin stood stark against the bright pink inflammation along the cuts.

“G-God, Jere,” Michael said, voice husky from the lump in his throat, roughly wiping his eyes and hurriedly getting to wiping Jeremy's arm. _“Why?”_

He didn't get an answer. Once he'd gotten some water on one of the rags, he soaped up the cloth.

“I'm gonna put soap on there, so it's gonna sting, okay?”

Jeremy nodded. Even with the warning, he winced slightly when the soap was rubbed gently into the wounds. Michael felt the stinging pain along his own arm and grimaced.

“Jesus, Jeremy, what else aren't you telling me?” he mumbled as he worked. He felt the scratches throbbing dully on his own arm, but ignored the pain. “You...”

He paused as he dipped Jeremy's soapy arm into the water. His eyes traveled past the pale wrist, down to the legs below them. There were half-healed cuts there, too, partially hidden by Jeremy's boxers. Soon, the suds spreading on the surface of the water obscured the legs, but they couldn't erase Michael's memory of what he'd seen.

“How long have you been doing this, Jere?”

In the silence that followed, Michael’s hands still gently working on his friend’s arms, he thought back over the past couple of weeks. Had he missed something?

Oh, fuck. Yeah, he had.

The scratching. That was it. That was the mystery that answered the question. Off and on throughout almost every day, Michael had felt light, slightly stingy scratching on the heels of his hands and the insides of his wrists. It had started out as just a little bit in the days following Jeremy's release from the hospital, but it had progressively worsened since. Michael had come to the conclusion that it was a sort of “static” in their sensory connection, and that it didn't mean anything.

“...since...” Jeremy pulled his arm away, turning his gaze to the tiles to his right. “...th grade...” he mumbled, barely audible.

“What?”

“Ninth grade,” Jeremy said in a dull, tired monotone, slumping his shoulders.

“Nin— _Freshman year,_ Jeremy!!?” He paused, but only until he saw Jeremy's nod. He blustered on, “how— what _started_ this?! Why do you do this?! Is there something I could've done, is there something you didn't tell me—”

“Shut up,” Jeremy hissed suddenly. Michael halted, mouth still open. “Shut your d-damn trap, Michael! If you— Don't—” He struggled to stand, and Michael stood with him, still holding his arm.

“What? What is it, Jeremy? _Tell_ me, for once. Quit holding this shit in.”

Finally, Jeremy broke.

 _“Fine!_ It w-was everything! School, p-people treating us like shit, kn-knowing I'd never have a chance with Ch-Christine, knowing I'd never have a chance w-with—” He stopped and felt almost physically jolted back at the screeching verbal halt.

“Uh... What?” Michael asked, confused.

“Nothing,” Jeremy shot back.

“Jeremy, I’m not an—”

“I s-said, _nothing!”_ Jeremy yanked his arm out of Michael’s grip.

 _Woah. Okay,_ Michael thought, successfully deflected.

“Alright. Alright. I’ll l— HeY!”

He was interrupted by his own surprised yell as Jeremy began to crumple without any warning. Instinct and reflexes had him dart forward to catch his friend before his head hit the tiled wall.

 


End file.
